Get the stomach flu.
Not just any stomach flu mind you. No, this has to be the mother, the mack daddy, the big pimpin, the-end-of-the-world-is-nigh-break-out-your-Armageddon-panties, nuclear powered stomach flu!
I'm talking the kind where you're so sick that you're rocking back and forth, crying, and foaming at the mouth while your wonderful husband is running like his life depended on it, looking for something to hold under your face because he knows you will not make it to the bathroom.
I'm talking about the kind of stomach flu where things are not only shooting out of your upper digestive system at speeds that rivals an F15 Eagle (which is mach 2.5+, just so ya know!), but the velocity at which bodily fluids are blasting out of your ass makes a fire hydrant seem like a drip!
I'm talking about the kind of stomach flu where the initial pre-vomit and subsequent waves of nausea wash over you, making you feel like you need not only a flotation device to stay atop them, but some as-yet-to-be-discovered-invented anti-nausea medication for elephants, just to get a grip on the misery.
Then, when you realize there is absolutely nothing left in your body, nay - not even enough moisture for a lone little tear drop with which to belay your absolute pathetic state to your husband, you're whisked away to the emergency room where they find you as dehydrated as a WalMart sponge left in the Sahara Desert at high noon in the middle of July. You're so thirsty you're willing to suck the condensation off of the inside of the car windows on your way to the ER, if only you could keep it down.
You realize that you're so dehydrated that you're skin is peeling off in sheets large enough to type an entire economics dissertation on! You beg the ER nurse to let you guzzle the contents of the IV bag, and possibly that of the person in the next room, yet still, she insists on hydrating you through a vein in your arm. That is, after she finds one, which takes her several tries because your veins are in hiding and refuse to come out and play.
Once you're fairly certain you're not going to die of dehydration, you're painfully aware of another burning problem coming from the artist formerly known as your ass. Whatever deadly virus you contracted that caused bodily fluids to launch from your bottom at a speed that would make Danica Patrick look twice (why she'd be looking at your ass is anyone's guess!), has also made your round, bright, red, rear feel like it's been kicked, whipped and then for good measure, branded. My mother helpfully texted me with the suggestion to pick up some "Tuck's Medicated" pads or some "Preparation H." I weakly replied back, "Screw that! I want an epidural!"
That m'dears is how sick I was.
That m'dears is what it took to make me dry heave at the mere scent of Coca Cola.
That m'dears hopefully means I am done with that shit once and for all!
Famous last words and all.
Seriously...Saturday, I wasn't feeling so great. I didn't eat much at all. Sunday morning I felt awful. Woke up with a horrible stomach ache and was a bit nauseated. Plus I had a miserable headache. I hadn't had a Coke in two or three days and I thought perhaps the headache and nausea had something to do with caffeine/sugar withdrawal. Being that we were supposed to go to the Y and go swimming, I decided to have about 5 ounces of a cold Coke to see if I felt any better. I didn't feel like eating anything at all.
The Coke sort of helped with the nausea but still left me feeling a bit wobbly. We went swimming and by the time I did my fifth lap I cried Uncle. I told Gareth I was going to go sit in the hot tub for a while and after ten minutes in the hot tub I wanted to lay down and die. My stomach hurt, my head hurt again, and I felt achy and really crappy. Not only that, but I kept having "Coke burps." Terribly unpleasant!
We stopped at the store on the way home from the Y and I asked Gareth to see if he could pick up a cold ginger ale for me, thinking it might help calm my stomach. I had a few sips and found the sweetness was too much.
By the time we got home my entire body was aching, my head pounding, and the diarrhea had started. By the time I finally got into bed, the waves of nausea washing over me were constant. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, hanging on for dear life because I knew what was coming. Gareth took one look at my face then literally ran and grabbed a tupperware bowl and sat there while my entire upper digestive system flung it's contents into the bowl. I'm pretty sure I saw my esophagus and tonsils come up as well.
My darling husband didn't gag once, held my hair back and was as gentle as a lamb, but still as manly as anything I've ever seen. Even amidst the really ugly dry heaves, during which I'm pretty sure I broke a rib, or four.
A lot of what I vomited was that Coke and the ginger ale. As a result, I don't ever ever ever want another one of either. Of course, immediately after the worst of initial vomiting was over, I was struck with a total sense of euphoria and I felt better than I had in years! I was ready to order a T-bone steak with all the trimmings...for about 60 seconds. And then I ran for the bathroom and hung on for dear life in hopes that whatever was coming out of me so fast and with so much fury, was not going to launch me entirely off of the toilet and into my neighbor's back garden!
I always think it's a little amusing, how, right after you're sick, you feel really good for a few minutes, and then, once that feeling passes, you're right back in the trenches of viral warfare, battling the evil green meanies (well that's how I picture the "vomit virals" anyhow - I even picture them having outrageous cartoon mustaches like the villians from the roaring '20's!). Gareth looked at me once I was able to lift my face out of the tupperware bowl and I believe I might even have smiled, a gruesome, slimy post-vomit smile at him. I hate to throw up. HATE IT! I'm terrified of it. Yet once it was over and done with I was just so glad to finally have it out of my system. Of course, like I said earlier, that feeling didn't last. I did throw up a few more times later that night and into the next day, but nothing like the initial declaration of war that my body threw in my face.
Thankfully, the worst of it's over. I still feel a bit like I've been run over by a herd of rabid toddlers and then pelted with gigantic Legos for good measure. The worst is over. The "Vomit Virals" and their nasty mustached gang have left the building. I sure as hell hope so anyhow! I'm pretty sure I'm no where near well enough to hold the bucket so-to-speak if Gareth comes down with the manly-man version of this. If he comes down with it (Gaby's already had it), I'm pretty sure I'm calling the in folks in the bright yellow HazMat jumpsuits to deal with this!
When all is said and done, I don't recommend this sort of intervention if you have a wicked Coca Cola habit.
But...if you really wanna kick it, I'm just sayin'!
